


your heart understands mine

by allisonmartined



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Nemeton, vaguely canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonmartined/pseuds/allisonmartined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She feels like they’re magnetized, like every part of her is desperate to touch every part of Allison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your heart understands mine

The hardest thing is finding out you’re not who you thought you were.  Newton’s first law of motion says that an object at rest tends to stay at rest and an object in motion tends to stay in motion until they are acted upon by an external unbalanced force; the unstoppable force and the immovable object, if you will.  But Lydia’s come to realize she’s not an unstoppable force (ash and wolfsbane stain her hands, screams that taste like blood and decay rot inside her mouth) and Allison’s not an immovable object either (manipulation seeps like acid, burning in her veins).  Lydia always thought that if she found that immovable object, something steady and solid, maybe she could just stop, be motionless for a while.  Maybe she could find something to slow the chaos.  But that’s not who she is anymore. 

 

Sometimes she dreams that she’s trapped in the woods, wolves stalking around her body, nipping at her ankles, jaws around her calves, blood sticky and thick trickling down her legs, pooling around her, a perfect circle.  There’s an arm around her abdomen, and hair against her neck.  She wakes up, as an arrow pierces the skull of the closest wolf, panting.

 

She seeks Allison’s hand as they walk into school, and Allison smiles down at her, squeezing just a little.

 

Sometimes she dreams about Allison’s hands under her dress, her lips against her neck, her legs around her hips.  She wakes with her back arched, her sheets sweat-soaked, and her eyes glazed.

 

She drags a guy into the janitor’s closet the next day, tells him where to put his hands, how to move his hips, but nothing compares to the phantom touch of Allison’s lips, to the whisper thin echo of her fingers in her hair.

 

The nemeton pulses through the bloodstream of Beacon Hills now, this constant thrum of energy pulling all of them to its center.  Its blood-soaked roots wrap themselves around their wrists and ankles, pulling them farther down into its darkness.  Lydia’s ears are bleeding from the screams bouncing off of her eardrums.

 

Allison doesn’t ask anything of her at first, but she feels the pull. The need to be near her.  _I’ll stay with you_ , Lydia says, no room for questions or debate. They settle into Allison’s bed and Lydia longs to touch, to thread her fingers through Allison’s hair, to trail her fingers over Allison’s arms and hips, splay her hand over her stomach, press them together.  She feels like they’re magnetized, like every part of her is desperate to touch every part of Allison.  Allison hums in her sleep and Lydia ghosts a hand over her arm, settling over the crook of her elbow.  Allison’s skin feels like electricity and safety and Lydia bites her lip, pressing her legs together.  She squeezes her eyes shut and wills sleep to come.

 

When Lydia opens her eyes, Allison’s studying her, eyes flickering over her face and her skin. 

 

Allison’s fingers flex around her bow, steadying her arm, and Lydia hates how much she wishes those fingers were pressing into her hips, flittering over her stomach, sliding inside her.  She hates how now when she’s trying to be a best friend all she wants to do is dip her hands under Allison’s shirt and reassure her with gentle, adoring touches that everything’s fine.  Instead she says _Mongolian draw_ and tries not to let her voice shake with the effort.

 

 _It’s not getting easier_ , Allison says, hands shaking around a bullet.  Lydia knows that what she means is, _I can’t do anything_.  And Lydia wants to tell her that she’s a savior, a warrior, that she can do anything, magic be damned.  _You can_ , she says instead, her voice final.  Her voice has always had more strength than her heart.

 

The arrow inches from her skull, the wire around her neck, the nails scraping down her spine, into her stomach.  She should expect it by now, violence follows her like a ghost nipping at her heels.  Allison’s dagger is pressed against her throat, right against where her voice hums, against her scream. _Allison_ , she says over and over.  Her eyes are empty, hollow, and Lydia reaches up, slides her palm up the legs that bind and press her into the bed, over Allison’s skirt and over her bare waist.  _Allison_ , she pleads, and the dagger falls, Allison slumping forward into her lap.  _Lydia_ , Allison gasps wetly against her neck.  _I’m not afraid_ , Lydia thinks and she almost believes it.

 

The problem with fear is that it isn’t always strait forward.  Lydia doesn’t fear the wolves but she fears the scrape of their nails, the pierce of their teeth.  She doesn’t fear Stiles, but she fears that glint behind his eye.  She doesn’t fear Allison, but she fears the way the darkness suffocates her, lights her on fire with smoke and ash.  She doesn’t fear sex but she fears the way she wants Allison, the way it fills her brain and her body with need.

 

Allison’s guilt is stifling and Lydia wants to strip it away, wants to glare it into submission.  _I’m not a victim_ , she tells her and Allison flinches and Lydia wonders how many times her mother said _Don’t be a victim, Allison_. Lydia thinks she can hear Victoria Argent’s voice ringing in her ears.  Allison threads their fingers together, brings their hands to her chest.   _I know_ , she says, certain.  They’re standing in the woods, and it’s cold, the November air biting.  She’s wearing her only pair of jeans and a long swooping cardigan, but she feels naked, like Allison gripping her hands to her body is stripping her clean of every layer she arms herself with.  She swallows and Allison slowly drops her hands.

 

 _It’s not fine_ , Allison says, pacing.  She’s put the gun down, so Lydia sees that as improvement.  _They marked you, Lydia, they took your scream._  It’s not that Lydia isn’t worried, terrified even, but she can’t stand that slightly crazed look in Allison’s eyes, it eats at her.  _Hey_ , Lydia says, stopping Allison and reaching up to hold her face still, _we’re going to figure it out_.  Allison pauses, releases a little, before she’s moving forward again but into Lydia’s space this time.  Allison’s lips are hard and soft against hers, and she’s sighing into it, pulling her tight against her own body before her mind even clearly registers what’s happening.  Allison’s hands are everywhere, searching, and Lydia groans as they dip underneath her skirt and between her legs.  _Allison_ , she gasps, her body arching into the hands that hold her.

 

 


End file.
